Archive of Our Own

“Shizuku, do you remember that thriller film you were in a while back?” 

Shizuku pauses, glancing up from her calendar. They’ve got a busy month ahead, and Saito is very kindly helping her go through her schedule, carefully pacing everything out. Shizuku is useless with their shared digital calendar, and so her physical planner needs independent, monthly updating to keep up with their busy schedule. Still, even opening the calendar interface proves difficult more times than not, and Shizuku usually needs Haruka or another member to hold her hand. It’s quite embarrassing, even if they profess that they don’t mind. Shizuku tries to be quick about it. 

Seeing her blank expression, Saito glances back to her computer, clicking a few times on her little scroll-pad-thing. 

“It was called, um… ‘Horrible Things’?” 

Shizuku’s breath catches. Ah. She remembers now.

Saito continues. “Apparently, it’s hit a newfound virality these past few months, on TikTok and what not. I haven’t actually seen it, to be honest — but it’s got you in it, it’s got to be good.” She shoots a grin towards Shizuku, who tries to match it. “Anyways. A film critic channel wants you on for an interview about filming your famed prologue scene. You’re free the day they want you in for shooting. How’s that sound?” 

Shizuku’s lips part, her mind running a mile a minute. Unbidden, her hand comes up to twist a strand of hair around her fingertip, the tip of her manicured nail scraping against her skin. She’s always been known for her faux-candid, pensive face. Photographers love it. 

“Um,” she says, intelligently, “can I get back to you on that?” 

Saito’s brow creases as she scrolls a bit more, tapping her nails against her keyboard. “…Sure thing. But before tomorrow, alright? I need to give them an answer.” 

“Sure, I can do that,” Shizuku breathes, only half-aware of the words leaving her mouth. Saito nods, and returns to the schedule. Shizuku lets the rest of the words wash over her, her hand automatically moving to mark down what Saito tells her too. She almost double-books herself twice — so air-headed, that Hinomori — and eventually, Saito shuts her laptop, shooting Shizuku an understanding smile. 

“How about we take a break for lunch? I’m starving.” 

Saito’s only doing this for Shizuku’s benefit, she can tell immediately. Guilt swirls in her chest, but she nods nonetheless, training her face into a grateful expression. She’s useless right now, with this sour taste in her mouth, the bile in her gut. “Sure thing, Saito. I’m not too hungry, so I’ll be in my room, alright?” 

Saito says something in affirmation; or she doesn’t, Shizuku can’t tell. She’s already halfway out the room, agenda left behind on the couch. She ducks into her and Airi’s small shared bedroom, still only half set up. It’s been a month since they moved their things into the MORE MORE House, but the bedrooms have taken a backseat decor-wise. They’ve been much more focused on the areas that would end up on camera. The walls are bare-bones, a few cardboard boxes piled up in the corner. A thin curtain separates Airi’s side of the room from Shizuku’s, where she tumbles onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow. 

Horrible Things. She’d forgotten all about that film in the whirlwind her life has been ever since. Or maybe, she’d chosen to forget, refusing to let herself linger on it. 

***

“Hinomori,” her manager says, face split into a grin, “you’ve been given an offer to appear in a film.” 

“A film?” Shizuku echoes, wide-eyed as he slides a packet of paper towards her on the table, “oh, my…” 

“Oh my indeed!” Her manager chuckles. “Remember, we’ve been talking about making an acting debut for you. This is a pretty minor role, so nothing too difficult for your first time. It’ll be a great way to get you on the scene!” 

Shizuku’s eyes flutter over the information packet, which seems like it contains a brief summary of the film, the casting so far, and a note from the director. The title of the film is printed in big, bold letters at the top of the front page. 

“Horrible Things?,” Shizuku laughs, but it barely conceals her nerves. “That sounds pretty dark, doesn’t it?” 

“It is a thriller,” her manager acquiesces, “but its focus is supposed to be primarily artistic. They’ve been looking for a good model to play this role; the director reached out to personally invite you. I know him from school, actually. I told him I’d talk to you about it.” 

Shizuku purses her lips as she looks over the pitch again. “Your role would have limited lines,” her manager continues, “so you don’t need to worry too much about your lack of acting experience. Nothing much to memorize. It’ll be just like a photo shoot, or — do you remember filming that ad for our collab with that perfume company? Yes, like that!” 

Shizuku nods along, keeping up her tight smile, careful not to show any teeth. She knows the look in her manager’s eye. The decision has already been made for her, and Shizuku is going to say yes. There isn’t another way around it. He’s probably already told the director that Shizuku will be there the day of the shoot. 

“It sounds like a wonderful opportunity. I hope I’ll be able to do the character justice!” 

Her manager smiles. “All that you have to do is look good, Hinomori, and you’re the best in the industry when it comes to that.” 

It’s a chilly January morning when they drive out to the filming location. The first snowfall of the year had just happened the following evening, and a light dusting of white covers the rural fields, just thin enough to leave tall, green blades of grass poking through the blanket. Shizuku counts cows from the backseat window during the nearly two hour long drive. She gets to 13 before they finally pull up on location. 

They’re shooting the very first scene of the movie; Shizuku’s character is the only one who properly shows up on camera. She shivers as she gets out of the van, wrapping her jacket around her. She changed into her costume before they left, a long, ankle-length nightgown, with delicate lace that she's careful not to snag or tear. The decals on the hem are as white as the show beneath her boots. Shizuku winces when she remembers she’ll need to go barefoot when they shoot. 

“The woman of the hour! Hinomori-san, welcome!” 

“Ah, hello!” Shizuku quickly banishes the cold from her face, smiling pleasantly at the man approaching her. He’s bundled in a parka, a few folders tucked under his arm. He stashes a pen behind his ear as he approaches, sticking out his hand for her to shake. 

“It’s a real pleasure to be working with you,” he says. His gloved hand feels cold under her bare one. “As soon as I wrote this part of the script, I thought ‘Hinomori Shizuku. It’s gotta be her’.” 

“I’m honoured,” Shizuku smiles with her teeth, counting to two before she continues, “I’ve never done a film before, so I hope that I live up to your expectations.” 

“Ah, you’re a natural, I can already tell!” 

He places a hand on her back and starts leading her towards the river, where a small group of people swarm microphones and cameras, not unlike on the set of a variety show.

“So, as you read in the pamphlet, you’ll be playing the first victim of the killer. A beautiful young girl, recently abandoned by her boyfriend who went for a more modern, plasticky, popular girl. Now, she’s heartbroken, betrayed, and thinking of ending it all, she runs out to the river in the middle of the night. She falls in — was she pushed? An accident? An act of self-annihilation? It’s unclear, but in the morning, she’s found dead, floating in the river. Our main characters, the detectives investigating the deaths, analyze the body in the morgue. They write it off as a suicide at first, but after another woman dies, they have to consider that they may have a serial killer on their hands.” 

Shizuku nods along to his explanation, carefully keeping a relaxed smile as she does. It’s nothing that she hadn’t read in the information pamphlet and the small snippets of script she’d been provided with, but she tries to soak up as much information as she can nonetheless. 

Her nerves have been so shot the past week that Shizuku had gone so far as to seek out the help of someone she hasn’t spoken to in at least two years; Tsukasa Tenma. He’d always wanted to be an actor, and as far as Shizuku was concerned, he was the right person to ask. She remembers those days when she and Tsukasa would play with their little sisters and their friends, the two of them always landing the “mom and dad” roles when they played house. She remembers Shiho falling off her bike once, and Tsukasa carrying her on his back all the way home. 

Of course, that was before Shiho stopped going out so much, before she spent hours on end in her room, the house filled with the sound of her bass. She freezes whenever Saki or the others are brought up, her eyes shift, she changes the subject. She doesn't want to talk about them. Shizuku held her breath as she tentatively knocked on the door, trying to pretend this wasn’t a huge violation of the boundary Shiho had clearly set: that she wants nothing to do with her childhood friends. 

It was worth it in the end; Tsukasa had been very helpful. He’d gone as far as to demonstrate his own creative process to her, handing her scripts and showing her how he’d highlighted each line. Shizuku had brought a notepad with her, scribbled down what she deigned important — Tsukasa had even commented on what an attentive student she was being, a perfect protege for a future star such as himself. Shizuku had to remember to send a care package for him and Saki to enjoy; a small token of her thanks. 

Shizuku had left the Tenma household knowing one thing: while there were many ways to embody a character, Tsukasa’s strategy came down to understanding and relating to them. It seemed as good a place to start as any: for this minor role, Shizuku could try on this style of acting to see if it suits her, with little repercussions if it doesn’t. 

Even so, the idea of not performing at her best sends a jolt down her spine. Because you like putting your all into things, she tells herself, because you hate to see a job half-done. Shizuku ignores the gaping maw at the pit of her stomach, its rancid breath flooding each nerve as it whispers, “and if you’re not perfect, they’ll all be so disappointed in you.” 

Carefully, Shizuku takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales. Panicking will get her nowhere. She has to do what she can, and the advice from Tsukasa was as good as any. The director hands her a script, still talking a mile a minute about the film, and Shizuku tries valiantly to pay attention while she starts leafing through her lines, pausing when she finds he’s already highlighted them for her, small bursts of the page illuminated in bright yellow. The air rushes out of Shizuku’s lungs all at once. An odd sort of dread settles over her as she stares at the block-printed kanji in the cliche font, glowing against the stark white paper. 

“Well, that’s all I had to tell you. Any questions, Hinomori-san?” 

Shizuku shakes herself out of her stupor, quickly schooling her face into a relaxed, grateful smile. “Thank you so much for taking their time to speak with me one-on-one,” she gushes, giving him a short bow, before feigning realization- eyebrows up, lips pursed, a little gasp, as if she’s only now remembered something vitally important. 

“Oh! What’s her name?” 

“Hmm?” Fooled by her act, the director tilts his head towards her, frowning. 

“The girl, my character,” Shizuku explains, gesturing to the pamphlet, “she’s only ever referred to as ‘Drowned Girl’ in the script. What’s her real name?” 

“Ah,” the director laughs, “I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest. But you’re right, the detectives will probably need that for the autopsy report, huh? Oversight on my part. I’ll come up with one later; don’t worry, it won’t come up in any of your scenes. We’ll probably just call her Hanako Yamada.” 

“Oh,” Shizuku mouths, but he’s already gone, off chatting to one of the cameramen. The papers crinkle in her hand. 

*** 

Shizuku sighs, rolling onto her back. It’s nice to lie down, but this really isn’t helping the roiling storm in her head. It’s been so long since she’s had to think about the film; she wasn’t prepared for it to come up now. It hasn’t even been all that long — the film was produced maybe a year, a year and a half ago — but with her departure from Cheerful*Days and the whirlwind of MORE MORE Jump she’d successfully managed to put it all behind her. Until now, that is. 

Shizuku buries her face in the crook of her elbow, and with her free hand she fumbles around her bedside table for her phone. She peeks one eye open just enough to open it and press the single button, easy-to-access shortcut that immediately opens her music app and starts playing Motto! (Bless Haruka for thinking of that, truly). Lying here moping isn't going to clear her head. As the world shatters around her and the mattress turns into soft grass, Shizuku can already feel the tension draining from her shoulders. She sighs and blinks hazily up at the bright blue sky, the clouds making bunnies and clovers that dance across her vision. Despite herself, Shizuku smiles. Who could ever truly be upset, in a SEKAI like this? She takes a deep breath of the air, fresh and crisp like at the mountain retreat Saito’s grandmother owns. 

Horrible Things made its film debut to moderate success; though much of the fanfare surrounding it was due to Shizuku’s appearance, however minimal it had been. A decent outcome for a debut indie film, and the director was satisfied, even if Shizuku ended up with most of the attention. Perhaps that had been his goal all along, to use her visuals and her fanbase to get eyes on his film. 

Shizuku had been out for a week after the filming, perhaps predictably, with a cold. Unexpectedly, that had been perhaps the nicest part of the whole experience. Being bedridden was disheartening, but the time to think was appreciated. She remembers being bundled up in quilts, drowsy in the afternoon sun, listening to the sounds of Shiho’s bass drifting through the thin wall that separated their rooms. With practice taking up most of her time, Shizuku only rarely got to hear her sister play. She found herself smiling at every misstep, every restart. 

And Airi called her once a day, concerned when Shizuku didn’t show up at school at first, and then determined to make her days a little happier. She would talk and talk, her beautiful voice lighting up the room until it lulled Shizuku into a gentle sleep. Tsukasa-kun came by one day, bearing flowers and a congrats card onto Shizuku’s surprised mother. Shizuku could hear him talking about how thrilled he was over her film debut from the foyer, even though she kept to her own room out of fear she’d get him sick. And two days in, she was surprised to find Asahina at her door, pressing a thermos of her mother’s soup into Shizuku’s hands alongside well-wishes. 

It was because of them, Shizuku thinks, that she was able to put the whole business of Horrible Things behind her so quickly. And it was because of them that the return to the studio was all the more jarring. 

The air between Cheerful*Days became tense. Sidelong glances from the other members, curter conversations, jokes she was never let in on. She knew why. Their main dancer had been vying for an acting debut from their manager for years, and now Shizuku had been handed a role without even wanting it. 

With a comeback around the corner, Shizuku had little time to promo the film when it came out, though she was swept away once or twice to make an appearance. And every time, makeup artists and security and press buzzing around her, she felt the icy waters of that river creeping up her legs, tiny frigid pinpricks slowly consuming her through every smile, every wink, every bow. 

After each appearance, her group mates only got colder, more open with their anger, more bold with their comments. Ungrateful. Untalented. Vapid. Boring. Vain. 

Less than a month after her film debut, Shizuku walked out of Cheerful*Days. 

The smell of rain hangs in the air, and the soft dewdrops on the grass tell her that a storm has swept SEKAI recently. Perhaps antithetically, Shizuku always takes it as a good sign. The flowers are being watered, and besides, the rain here is never cold, each drop tiny and soft and warm. 

***

“Thank you very much,” Shizuku says, shooting the assistant an award-winning smile as she bundles Shizuku up in plenty of scarfs. The assistant flushes a little, but she smiles back. 

“Of course, Hinomori-san. Um, if you want, we’ve got some hot chocolate and coffee in the van…?” 

“Maybe after we wrap up the shoot,” Shizuku smiles, scrunching her toes up within her boots in an attempt to get the blood flowing once more. 

The first few shots, mostly of her running and stumbling through the rocks, hadn’t been too bad to film. A little strenuous, very cold, but Shizuku would not be where she is today without her fair share of powering through. But now they’re moving on to the part where she actually falls (or is pushed) into the creek. She shudders just at the thought of plunging into the frigid water, but she puts that thought to the back of her mind. She signed up for this; she can do it. 

Needing to give her anxious mind something to settle on, Shizuku picks up the script once more, leafing through the thin packet of lines she was to say. She needs to film a monologue scene, a sort of haze where the frozen corpse of the girl speaks to the main character through a dream, or a vision. The words are complicated, near nonsensical, though they probably have deep meanings meant to be deciphered by people much smarter than her. 

Find something in common with your character, really understand them, and everything will come naturally after that. 

Shizuku frowns, pursing her lips into a pout. Hmm. She’s certainly familiar with the trope of a young woman consumed by her feelings, chasing after a love that could never be and going mad with the desire. But she can hardly say that she knows what it’s like, to feel that way. Idol life is all too busy for any romantic pursuits, and none of the crushes she’s had over the years have felt so all-consuming that she’d run out into the wilderness in the middle of the night. They’ve never even come close to that. Love, even when unreciprocated, has only ever felt… warm. Comforting. A gentle spark to hold close in her chest, and even if it faded, its warmth would never disappear completely. 

Still, she shouldn’t write this off as a dead end. She can still relate to this character, if she tries hard enough. Maybe not love, but perhaps something else, like her career? There’s certainly been times when she’s felt as if it might drive her mad. But… she loves being an idol, despite it all. Did the drowned girl love being in love, despite it all? Did she still love her cheating boyfriend? She must have, or else why would she run into the cold? Why did she run into the cold? A desire to escape? Shizuku supposes she can sympathize with that. 

Shizuku sighs through her teeth, but it comes out halted as they chatter in the cold. Tsukasa made this all sound so easy. But she’s really having trouble understanding what this character is about, beyond being a hopeless romantic prone to melancholy. The drowned girl is the catalyst to this entire film. If she does this wrong, if she doesn’t understand… 

Shizuku shakes her head, ridding herself of the thought. No, no reason to sink down that spiral. She needs to focus, and surmount this problem. She needs a fuller grasp of this girl’s life, and there’s one person here who can give her insight, who knows this character better than anyone. 

The director is chatting to his sound crew, but he shoos them away when Shizuku approaches him, shooting her a blinding smile (and she’s just imagining the twinge of annoyance in his eyes, she assures herself). 

“Hello, Hinomori. What’s up?” 

“I was just wondering, what does she — err, the drowned girl — what does she do? What’s she interested in? Does she have hobbies? How does she do in school?” 

The director blinks. “Why?” 

“W-well,” Shizuku stammers, and winces as she internally chastises herself for the stutter. She thought she'd quashed the habit months ago. “Well, It’s just… I want to make sure I play the character right, and I have to know the character to do that, yes? For instance, this line here-“ she quickly flips through the script, “when she talks to the main character through the dream, the way I deliver it-“ 

“You’re so sweet, Hinomori, working so hard on your acting for this film,” the director interrupts. His smile cloys at the edges, Shizuku doesn’t miss the way it refuses to meet his eyes, “but you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve actually made the decision to edit those lines out. You’ll just be silent in the scene — you know, to make it easier for you.” 

“Oh,” Shizuku breathes. Her throat goes dry. “I assure you, I don’t mind the challenge at all — there’s really no need to-“ 

“Nonsense,” the director waves his hand in the air. Shizuku represses a flinch. “Don’t worry about it at all. Besides, it makes it all the more suspenseful.” 

Shizuku opens her mouth to protest, but he’s already turned away from her. The air rushes out of her lungs, but no sound comes with it. He isn’t paying attention, anyways. 

“Hey, makeup; can we get someone from makeup here? Give her more of a deathly pallor?” 

The makeup artist sighs as she dusts Shizuku’s cheeks, dotting white powder over her face. 

“I wish I were as naturally pale as you,” she mutters with a tight smile, tapping her brush on the side of the palette. 

You’re beautiful, Shizuku wants to say. The words get stuck in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

***

“Shizuku!” 

Shizuku starts as she hears her name, the cry shrill and piercing through the peaceful spring air. She sits up in one quick movement that makes her head spin, scanning the horizon until she spots a flash of movement, cherry-blossom pink on the edge of her vision as Luka hops off a gazebo and jogs towards her, skirts bundled in her hands to keep them from getting in the way. She's wearing an old dress of Shizuku's, one she'd tried to pass down to Shiho, only for it to be thoroughly rejected. The dress found a second life when Luka and Rin demanded that Shizuku teach them embroidery one day and needed a surface to practice on. Now, mismatched stitches cover the bottom of the dress; flowers, clovers, a slice of orange, a little fish. It's messy, the usual missteps of a beginner's learning process. When they'd taken up as much space as they could on the dress, Luka scoped it up and announced she'd be keeping it. It's a little embarrassing, watching Luka flounce around in the old, threadbare white dress, but its age is covered up by the vibrant embroidery that shimmers at her feet, and Shizuku has to agree that it's beautiful, even with messy colours and half-finished stitches. And now, the colours flash through the grass as Luka hurries towards Shizuku.

Shizuku takes a few quick strides forwards, meeting Luka halfway. Her normally calm blue eyes are wide and frantic, and she looks Shizuku up and down, up and down, as if confirming her existence. 

“Luka?” Shizuku breathes. Luka’s fear is entirely off-putting. She isn’t supposed to look like this. “what’s- oh!” 

Luka’s face pinches, and suddenly, Shizuku is swept into a tight hug. 

“Thank goodness,” she breathes, the mechanical hum of her voice sounding nearly choked up, “you’re alright.” 

“Why wouldn't I be?” Shizuku manages to force out, slowly wrapping her arms around Luka’s shoulders, “Luka-chan, what’s wrong?” 

She can feel Luka shake her head, her long pink hair brushing against Shizuku’s chin. Shizuku rubs gentle circles into her back. She's wearing can feel the trembles of a hammering pulse through the thin dress, and she wonders absently if there really is a heart inside Luka's chest cavity, pumping blood to her mechanical limbs.

Eventually, Luka calms enough to pull away from the embrace, her eyes shimmering as she assesses Shizuku once more, hands firm but comforting on her upper arms. Shizuku almost wants to tug her in once more, to feel those steady arms around her again. 

“What is it, Luka-chan?” She whispers instead. Luka shakes her head and presses her lips into a thin line. Her hands drop, and she instead clutches Shizuku’s wrist. Wordlessly, Luka turns around and pulls Shizuku forward. 

Whatever it is, it’s too big for words. Shizuku’s gut coils as they climb over the soft, rolling hills of SEKAI. She glances at every flicker of petals in the wind, scanning the strange, colourful buildings on the horizon that never seem to get nearer, no matter how far they walk. She slips Luka’s grasp from her wrist to her hand, letting their fingers interlock. Luka squeezes and glances behind her, as if checking to make sure Shizuku is still there. 

“Luka-san,” Shizuku says breathlessly, after she almost stumbled over herself in their haste, “please, tell me, what’s wrong?” 

Luka shakes her head again, cherry blossom hair swaying with the movement. At once, she comes to a stop and tugs Shizuku up to stand next to her. They’ve stopped in front of a large pond, the water crystal blue with fine, bright lily pads dotting the edges. Luka squeezes Shizuku’s hand once more, and then raises a shaking hand to point at something in the middle of the pond.

Shizuku squints. At first, it looks innocuous, like a small pile of fabric drifting softly in the wind. But then it rotates a little, and Shizuku’s stomach drops. 

It’s a corpse. It’s her corpse. 

***

Shizuku’s hair looks almost white in the pale light, drifting above her, creating patterns in the flow of the water. 

The icy water is a shock to her system, no matter how hard she tried to prepare for it beforehand. Thousands of needles pierce into her skin, paralyzing her muscles and rushing the breath out of her. 

She’s only underwater for a second before she bobs back up to the surface, buoyed by the fabric of her nightgown. She hears someone yell “perfect, right there!” and Shizuku stills, trying to forget the cold, putting all her focus on unclenching her frigid muscles. She’s not light enough for the water to carry her away; like instructed, she finds a natural foothold among the rocks, and lodges her arm somewhere that feels inconspicuous. 

“Can we get someone to fluff out her hair a little, please? And the skirts as well? Thank you!” Hands comb through her hair, pulling strands away from her face; Shizuku mutters quiet ‘thank you’s out of habit. Then, they pull away, and Shizuku is alone, staring up at the blinding overhead lights. 

Shizuku isn’t sure why it’s taken her this long to figure it out. Unsurprising, perhaps; she’s never been known for her smarts. Still, Shizuku disappoints herself. 

The drowned girl is nothing, because she is not supposed to be anything. She begins and ends in the camera’s lens; is born, lives, and dies in the reel of film. It does not matter what she might do for fun, what she may or may not achieve in school. Those things do not exist to her. All that exists is the eyes of the director, the camera, the audience. And they do not care who she is, because the drowned girl was born to  drown; not to speak, not to think, not to breathe. A life and death in the spotlight. Shizuku was never supposed to develop her personality, to create a character behind the visage. All they ever wanted to see was a victim.

“That’s perfect, Hinomori, now a few shots with your eyes closed!” 

She plunges herself into the hazy orange-pink of the back of her eyelids. Somehow, it’s relieving. 

In some sick way, the drowned girl was right to have drowned. It isn’t like she could have ever amounted to anything else. Her only purpose was to be seen, and now, she is immortalized on the silver screen, pale and pristine as a porcelain doll. The icy water will keep her skin frozen, slow her decay, keep her pretty for as long as it can. Here she cannot grow bloated, no maggots will eat at her dead skin. If they do, the camera will never capture it. This is who she will be. She’s fulfilled her purpose, and soon, the script will not need her anymore. No one will. The tragedy is not a life cut short, a life succumbed to the whims of a murderer; the tragedy is that there was never any other path. Shizuku tries her hardest not to breathe, not to move. If she does not look perfect, then no one will care. 

She can feel the eye of the director, her manager, the crew, the audience, the critics, the hoards of moviegoers. They watch her closely, seeking the smallest imperfection. Their eyes are haunting, appraising, jealous, fearful, pious, awed, reverent, envious; everything wrapped into one, and they won't look away. They want her to fail. They want her to soar. They want her to be everything and nothing. And she won't disappoint them. The drowned girl has to look like a dream, always just out of reach, innocent and ruined and unobtainable, because that is all she is here for.

But she's already been obtained, hasn't she? Designed perfectly to be always out of reach, to exist only in the minds and eyes of others, to never stand on her own. An object of desire, nothing else. Shizuku tries her best not to breathe. She'll be empty, empty and perfect, so that she can be just for them.

And quietly, in the depths of her mind, Shizuku wonders if she is the same. They’d love her more, wouldn't they, if she didn’t speak, didn't stumble, didn’t decay? 

…Ah. That’s it, isn't it? Why she was chosen. Why this role was given to her on a silver platter. Why the director took away her lines, winced when she spoke. Finally, Shizuku understands the unnamed girl floating in a river. Shizuku had been trying to see the drowned girl as a person, but she isn’t. She’s an image. An aesthetic. She was never alive in the first place. All they wanted to see was a perfect victim — all they want to see is a perfect idol.

And for a few, frigid seconds, Shizuku envies her. How nice it must be, to have no fault, to remain gorgeous and youthful forever, to be holy and pure and clean as the fallen snow. Made to be looked at; a hollow, porcelain shell. If Shizuku drowns here, will she be loved? Will she be remembered? Will she be perfect? 

I am so sorry, she thinks, as water rushes past her, as the director makes comments to the cameraman, his words drowned by the trickling of the river, I am sorry I could not give you life. You deserve more than this. I wish I could hug you, kiss your face; I wish you could tell me everything, the things you love, the things you hate; all those little quirks and habits that are unique to you; I want to know. I want to know you. I want you to be known. 

Perhaps Shizuku is only in the water for five seconds. Perhaps she is left there for weeks, as the weather gets colder, as more snow falls, as the river freezes around her. But eventually, someone yells “CUT!” into the still air, and Shizuku is suddenly swarmed with people.  

The assistant from before helps pull her out of the water, her hands warm against Shizuku’s cold skin. Immediately, she is piled with warm towels. Someone reaches up and throws one over her head, drying off her hair with a bit of aggression. 

“Let’s get you into the van! Hot chocolate or coffee?” The assistant asks when Shizuku is finally unearthed. She blinks a few times, trying to get her bearings. Before she can respond, the assistant disappears from her view, replaced by the director’s beaming face. He plants a hand on Shizuku’s shoulder and leads her towards her warm, cozy van and presses a steaming mug of something into her hands. 

“You looked beautiful,” he says, and Shizuku only feels colder. 

***

”I’m so sorry, Luka-san. I had no idea this could happen.” 

“It’s okay, Shizuku. You couldn’t have controlled it, anyways.” 

Luka smiles shakily. She’s a little calmer now, with Shizuku whole and healthy, within arms reach, but she still hugs herself, standing a ways away from the shore. Shizuku, on the other hand, is knelt down, her knees dipped into the warm water as she leans forward, watching the body — her body — float peacefully in the middle of the pond. It rotates softly with the wind, bobbing gently. The face is angled slightly to the side, Shizuku can see her eyes, wide, dry, unblinking; staring out at something no one else can see. Luka shudders. 

“I knew it couldn’t really be you,” Luka says, “the SEKAI would never… kill you. It can’t. But, still…” 

Shizuku understands her trepidation. Shizuku is sitting right here, and she knows that the corpse isn’t her, but there’s an unsettling vertigo from seeing her exact image, perfectly rendered and perfectly still, floating only a few meters away. It’s dressed just as she was on the set of the film, the billowing skirt of the nightgown drifting softly in the waves, her hair all swept out behind her. The SEKAI is stuck in perpetual spring, but this false Shizuku has obviously frozen to death, her lips perfectly blue, fine white snowflakes caught on her lashes. 

“Sometimes,” Shizuku whispers, “Sometimes I wonder if this is all people think of me.” 

At first, she doesn't know if Luka heard. Honestly, Shizuku isn’t even sure if she wants Luka to hear. But after a beat, there's a shifting behind her, then beside her, and Luka kneels on the shore right to Shizuku’s left. Her hand hovers slightly above Shizuku’s knee, present, waiting for permission. Shizuku shakes her head, just a little. Luka’s hand drops back to her lap. 

They sit there for a little while, Luka patient and stoic beside her. A soft breeze ruffles the grassy field, dancing along Shizuku’s hair, forcing her to carefully pry a few strands from her mouth. The corpse rotates as it’s pushed by the wind, drifting ever so closer to where Shizuku and Luka are perched on the shore. 

“…Would you like to talk about it?” Luka’s soft voice is the first to break the silence. She’s looking directly at Shizuku, now, stiff and angled away from the corpse, as if she loathes to look at it. Shizuku doesn’t know if VIRTUAL SINGERS can get nauseous, but Luka certainly looks the part. A pang of guilt flourishes in her chest. She doesn't want to force Luka to stay here, where she’s so clearly uncomfortable, but for some reason, Shizuku can’t bear to leave the corpse. 

“Luka-san,” she breathes, “if you want to go, you can. I’ll make sure this is gone before I leave.” In truth, Shizuku has no idea how she’ll go about doing that, but she’d rather deal with it herself than put Luka in this position. 

But surprisingly, or perhaps predictably, Luka’s gaze hardens and she shakes her head confidently, without a moment of hesitation. “If you really want to be alone right now, Shizuku, I’ll go, but I think you need a friend right now. I’m not going to leave you here.” 

Shizuku thickly swallows the lump that threatens to rise in her throat, and wordlessly, she nods. Her eyes drag themselves back to the body, unable to stay away for long, and Luka instead leans back to watch the bunny rabbit clouds bounce across the sky. 

A few more seconds pass in silence before Shizuku finds her voice again. 

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” She breathes, though the sentiment is lost on someone who can’t even look at the corpse, “I look so perfect.” 

A small sound escapes Luka’s throat, and she turns to look at Shizuku, eyes incredulous. “Shizuku-chan,” she breathes, the serious tone in her voice startling Shizuku out of her stupor, “that’s — you’re — she’s dead.” 

“Well, yes,” Shizuku stammers, feeling silly, “but it's a very… beautiful death, don’t you think?” 

Luka finally glances out over the pond again, nose wrinkling as she takes it in. She seems lost for words, for a moment. For some reason, Shizuku finds herself holding her breath waiting for Luka’s reaction. 

At last, Luka sighs. “I suppose, strictly aesthetically speaking…” she mutters, words halting, unsure; but her brow crinkles and she shakes her head.

”But I prefer you much more like this.” Luka gestures to the real, living girl beside her, face finally softening when she turns away from the corpse. Towards Shizuku. “That body out there — that isn’t you. You’re so full of life and joy, Shizuku, I… that could never be you.” She shakes her head some more, as if the very thought disturbs her. “I never want to see you like that. Besides, it’s not a very good fate, is it? To just be… left there. You deserve something kinder. Softer.”  

“Are you sure?” 

The words are unbidden, and Shizuku blinks in surprise when they leave her lips. She hadn’t meant to say that. 

“Shizuku,” Luka’s face has dropped from softness to sternness, the lines of her brow accented by the concern in her eyes. “What’s this about?” 

You deserve something kinder. People love to see Shizuku still and doll-like, perfect and unchanging, but that isn’t her. More than just the drowned girl, more than what the camera sees — is that really true? She's shown her true self to her fans, but people like that director are another story. They've already been rejecting Haruka, for showing a sliver of weakness when she was fourteen — what will they think of Shizuku? What do they think? Can people see past her pretty face? Will they still love her, if they do? 

She thinks of Airi, of her fans, of her practiced script as she explains that she isn’t perfect to hundreds of livestream viewers; how she works hard, she makes mistakes. Of the outpouring of love that arose from them, even as some fans dropped away, grieving the loss of the image, of the intrigue. She thinks about Asahina, the still calm that overtakes her in the archery range. She thinks about the snide sideways glances her old groupmates sent her way, when they knew she was looking. She thinks of that simple sentence; it’s hit a newfound virality these past few months; your famed prologue scene. She wonders how many people have gushed over the sight of her perfect corpse in the past year.

She thinks about Luka’s hand, rubbing slow circles into Shizuku’s back. Shizuku exhales slowly, feeling her lungs slowly contract.

"There's this…" she begins, but the words fail her. Luka squeezes her shoulder. "I, um, I appeared in a movie. Back when I was still with Cheerful*Days."

Once she starts, it's difficult to stop. The words tumble out, barely making sense. The deal, the car ride, the director, the highlighted lines, the cold, the stares, the promotion, that sickening frigidity from her group mates; how it faded into the background of her life until the interview request, which must have happened only twenty minutes ago. It tumbles out of Shizuku like an avalanche. Luka is quiet through it all, her hand steady on Shizuku's back.

The story doesn't end, but it tapers out. Eventually, Shizuku just stops talking. The body still floats there, gently rotating. Shizuku watches how the ripples in the water wave through tresses of hair.

Luka doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. Shizuku sighs, and lets her head droop to land on Luka's shoulder. It feels like that bone-deep chill from the river has snuck back under her skin, leaving her shivering despite SEKAI's warmth. She presses a cold hand to her arm, as if to flatten the goosebumps that have risen.

"And the thing is," Shizuku mutters after a minute has passed, the thought stirring in her brain, drawing lazy circles around her cerebrum, "I really should take the interview. After Idol Lovers, all of our show offers have dried up, and — this is an opportunity. I should take it. There's no reason why I shouldn't take it."

"Of course there is," Luka says. The mechanical hum of her voice reverberates through her body and into Shizuku's cheek like the gentle rumble of a train car in motion. "You don't want to. That's reason enough."

"Is it?" Shizuku mutters. "Idol work requires sacrifices, I've always known this. All of us are making sacrifices. It's not fair that I'm allowed to skip out on this one. It's just —"

Shizuku presses a hand over her face, over her eye. She prods at the squishy organ behind the thin skin of her eyelid.

"I just don't know what I'd say. I don't know if I'd be able to be normal about it. They'd all praise my performance, and swoon over my corpse, and —" Shizuku barely suppresses a shudder. It's like she can feel their eyes on her already, autopsying her, her cadaver laid bare on the dissection table.

"Then don't. Don't do it. I agree that it's tricky, but, is it really worth it? Is the potential of this interview worth the pain you'll go through?"

"I'm afraid it'll have to be." Shizuku sighs, the breath fluttering past her lips. She's quick to draw it back in. The corpse continues to rotate lazily, a quiet revolution around the circular ebb and flow of the water. It's just an interview, Shizuku. Forty minutes of your time. Easy.

But it's not just an interview, is it?

It's…

It's that…

"It's just that I know they love me better like this," she mutters, voice half-muffled behind the sleeve of Luka's shirt, "I'm easier dead."

"Well, fuck them."

Luka's voice pierces through the calm, the phrase making Shizuku jolt, uncomfortably slamming her nose into Luka's shoulder. It shocks Luka too, and she starts back away from Shizuku. Both of them immediately cast paranoid looks around, as if a camera crew might have snuck into SEKAI at some point and caught Luka's blunder, poised to plaster the video all over fan sites. The fields, of course, remain empty, and Luka and Shizuku come back to each other.

"Luka," Shizuku chastises, though the reprimand is dulled by the fact that she can't help but giggle, the sudden burst of adrenaline dissolving into hilarity.

"I'm serious!" Luka protests, not before casting another superfluous look at their surroundings. "I'm serious. Those people who think that's all you are —" and she gestures to the corpse, but she still won't look at it — "fuck them. Your fans — your real fans — they would hate to see you like that. They love you for you, Shizuku. They don't love whatever shell that producers want to project onto you, they love you. Look—"

She gathers up Shizuku's hands in her own, presses them together. The movement feels familiar. "You're right that — that for some people, seeing you just as a pretty face that they can use to fit whatever narrative they want is convenient. Is easy. But the people who care, and there a plenty of people who care, they'll make the effort to love you as you are. Think of Airi and the others. And your friend, Asahina. And all your fans who accepted you as you are. They love you. And they're the ones you want to concern yourself with, not uptight producers and people who think you're nothing but a product to be obtained."

Luka squeezes her hands once again, leans forward until their foreheads are touching. "There are always going to be people like that, Shizuku-chan. No matter how hard you try to play into their wants, they'll never be happy. They're all too caught up in their own delusions to acknowledge the real you. And that won't change, whether you do this interview or not. You're happy as you are, yes?" Shizuku nods. "Then that's all that matters. Be happy. The real fans will come to you."

Shizuku swallows. "But — the interview —"

"You don't have to do the interview, Shizuku. Minori, Haruka, Airi, and Saito would all say the same. If you don't want to buy into this trend, then don't. And I… I really don't think you should. I won't stop you, but I think doing it will only make it worse. Unless you go out and bash the film altogether — and I know you won't do that."

She's right; Shizuku won't. It would be too cruel, too dismissive of the opportunity she was given, of all the pain she caused others. But for just a second, staring into Luka's eyes, she lets herself imagine that she could.

"It's an opportunity—"

"There will be more opportunities." Luka shakes her head, her hair gently tickling Shizuku's temple. "Shizuku. Are you really okay with giving up more of yourself to this movie? You need to put yourself first."

Shizuku presses her eyes closed again. "I just don't know, Luka-san. I feel like I've been doing a lot of that lately."

Luka exhales softly, and Shizuku can hear the disagreement within it.

"Do you want to do the interview, Shizuku? Think about it. Think about what you'd say. Is that what you want?"

Shizuku thinks about it. She thinks about the itchy chairs, the host's fake smile. About praising the director's creative vision, thanking him and her agency profusely for the opportunity, about saying the filming was difficult 'but it was all worth it in the end, of course, look how beautiful I am. Look at how many people my corpse has reached.' She thinks about the large screen behind her, about the opening scene playing there, the spectre of the drowned girl haunting every word she carefully says. And in her mind, the corpse watches her, and though her face is impassive, Shizuku can feel the disappointment, roiling off of her in waves. Why would you do this to me? Why would you do this to yourself?

"No," Shizuku whispers, the words half her own, half the drowned girl's. "No, it isn't"

"Then I think you have your answer," Luka mutters, her voice impassive, free of judgment. Shizuku chuckles softly, but it sounds like a sob.

They lapse into silence once more. Shizuku draws in a tepid breath, lets it out once more. There's a strange sort of feeling bubbling just under her skin, something akin to the adrenaline that rushes through her when the lights come on at the start of the show, but more fleeting, more pained. It flows through her veins, down her muscles, pulses; an undercurrent to her heart.

Shizuku stands with a speed that briefly startles her, her hands loosening themselves from Luka's. She stares at the drowned girl, and her chest aches, a low, rumbling yearning, a soreness that goes farther than her flesh. She hears Luka gasp and stumble to her feet beside her, but the noise feels far away.

Shizuku steps into the pond, drawn in like a fish on a hook. The water is warm. Welcoming. She takes another step. And then another — and then she's halted, almost trips at the suddenness of it, a soft pressure on her forearm.

Luka's hand is wrapped around her wrist, her fingers tense and cool against Shizuku's skin. Shizuku turns, taking in Luka's wide, uncertain eyes, the slight tremor of her lip. She's scared. "Shizuku?" Luka mutters, her grip loosening ever so slightly.

"It's okay," Shizuku mutters. Gently, she peels Luka's hand off of her wrist and clasps it in both of her own. "Don't worry, Luka-san. There's something I have to do."

Luka examines her face for a second, her eyes probing deeper than skin. Shizuku smiles, relinquishes herself to the worry in Luka's face. For her, she has nothing to hide.

Finally, Luka swallows, and nods, drawing her hands to her chest. The worry lingers, but she steps back, watching Shizuku like a hawk all the while. Shizuku inhales, lets Luka's gaze waft over her, into her. It's different than the director's, than the piercing criticisms of Cheerful*Days, their eyes always hunting, always seeking some imperfection. Luka's gaze feels like steady hands on her back, a quiet 'I'm here for you; I'll catch you if you fall.' Luka meets Shizuku's eye. She doesn't look at the body.

Shizuku gives her one last, gentle smile, and then turns back to the drowned girl.

No — that's not quite right. The title feels like a hangnail, like something irking just under her mind; a too-tight shoe, an off-key note. Shizuku fishes around in her brain for something else to call the girl.

Hanako Yamada.

It's a cop-out of a name, a label slapped over a glaring plothole, but it's the best Shizuku's got. Hanako isn't a bad name at all, she reasons; it's common, but it's elegant. Pretty, even. It could suit the girl.

Hanako. Shizuku turns back to Hanako.

She's stopped her lazy revolutions around the pond, instead floating still, bobbing gently in the soft breeze. Shizuku watches her hair as she closes the distance, watches it dance and duck and flow. As Shizuku draws nearer — the water never dips above waist level, never threatens to pull her under — she can see the girl's face, pale and sullen, sunken eyes and cheeks. Hanako's begun to turn ugly shades of black and purple, Shizuku realizes, on the tips of her fingers and ears. Her mouth hangs slightly open in what might have been a pout from the shore, but from here Shizuku can see her receding gums, her gray lips. Her face is frozen in what had looked like serenity, but now registers as fear, her milky white irises staring up at some horror that Shizuku can't see. Once she's close enough, Shizuku places a hand on Hanako's shoulder. Her skin is rubbery and hard, frozen like an ice cube, and Shizuku has to suppress the urge to pull her hand back, to run away. Putrefaction clings to her, veils her like a burial shroud. There are raw patches of skin and flesh where scavengers have picked at her face. Shizuku swears that she can see wriggling maggots underneath the pale skin of the drowned girl's arm.

For some odd reason, Shizuku's heart begins to calm. Hanako-chan l is beginning to look disgusting — truly, she already does.

Good, Shizuku finds herself thinking, They can't have us in death. We'll rot, just like everyone else.

She finds one of Hanako's hands, clasped serenely over her chest. They're too stiff to pry apart, so Shizuku simply rests her own hand over them, feeling the cold, elasticity skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, quiet so only Hanako can hear. "You didn't deserve this." She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, cups her cheek. "You were someone. I know you were someone. And I'm sorry they took that away from you."

Shizuku presses her fingers into Hanako's eyelids. Though they're as frozen as any other part of her, she meets little resistance as she slides them closed. "It's over now," she mutters, "I won't let them take this from you, too. Go to sleep. Dream of something kinder."

Hanako shudders, and lets out one last, wheezing breath. Shizuku squeezes her stiff, lifeless hand one more time, and gently pushes her down.

The water almost seems to rise up to claim Hanako, sucking her in, swallowing her whole as she sinks, down, down, until only her face and the bony protrusions of her frigid knuckles are visible, until it's only the tips of her nose, until the ends of her silver hair are pulled under, covering her face, swimming like jellyfish tendrils. Shizuku feels the corpse sink past her hand, the last bits of the dress kissing her fingertips, before Hanako disappears once and for all.

It's quiet. Nothing speaks but the wind, whistling softly past Shizuku's ears. A few bubbles escape the pond, and then the water stills.

It's over.

"Shizuku?"

Luka has waded into the water after her, has managed to walk knee-deep into the pond without Shizuku so much as noticing. She seems calmer, now that the corpse is gone, but her brow creases in worry all the same. Shizuku's gaze finds her dress, tiny visages of rabbits and chickadees swimming in the waves.

Shizuku beams at her. "I'm not going to do the interview," she says, savoring each syllable, ensuring that the words ring out in the fresh spring air. I won't do it. I'm saying no. Tell the world I'm saying no.

Luka smiles a little timidly, but her reservations seem to dissipate as giggles float up through Shizuku's chest and burst out of her mouth. The relief mixed with that unwieldy joy of saying no creates an odd concoction of hilarity that soars through her body like a balm, washing away the last of her fear and forcing it to retreat down, down, down, sinking away like Hanako. And she keeps laughing, just for the sake of it, for the sake of feeling how her body shakes with the laughter, for how her face crinkles and aches under the weight of her grin, how her breath hiccups and catches and strains at her chest. "I won't," she gasps between breaths, "I won't do it. I'm alive, and I wont do it."

"Yeah," Luka says, and now she's giggling too, holding out her arms until Shizuku collapses into her, buries her face into her neck, muffles the tears fight sting behind her eyes, relief and remorse wrapped into one. "They can't make you do anything, Shizuku-chan."

It's silly of them, standing in the middle of a pond in this field of flowers, clinging to each other and laughing like they've heard the funniest joke imaginable, but Shizuku can't bring herself to care. She laughs until she sobs, and then she laughs again, and she swears she can hear a third voice in the wind, giggling alongside them.